***Trigger Warning***

***Some disturbing imagery, torture, assault***

No one spoke to Jack for days. It was near impossible to figure out exactly how long he was kept in that room, strapped to that table. He was guessing it was over three days, less than a week though, but couldn't be sure. He knew it felt much longer than that.

He was monstrously hungry; wasting away seemed the fitting term. They weren't feeding him, only bringing him water, which they forced down his throat if he refused, and he did refuse. He was willing to bet death by starvation was much better than whatever they had in store for him.

Abraham didn't come to see him again, only other cloaked figures that would pour enough water down his throat to keep him alive, and hose him off when he soiled himself. It was a humiliating experience. They seemed to have a water pump fixed into one of the walls (though Jack couldn't see precisely since his head was still restrained), which they would aim at him and the table for a few minutes whenever they noticed a stink off of him. It was never done with care and he was always left soaking in his own filth.

They never responded to him, these other members of the Imperial Cult only carried on with the routines. Jack focused with all he had to keep his sanity. He held on to the faint hope that his mom and Cara would come and rescue him, that they would be able to figure out where he was and plot out a covert infiltration. He would glance up at the cloaked figures, each time hoping that he would see his mother's kind face, and she would get him out of this torture. He wanted to hold her again, to know things were going to be all right.

But it wasn't his mom that Jack saw the next time the cultists entered the room. The man standing over him had a black robe as well, but didn't bother pulling the hood over his face. The elderly man with a gleaming bald head and thick bifocals leered down at him with a grin stained from a lifetime of cigarettes.

"Brother Abraham has allowed me the honour of preparing you and your counterpart for the ceremony," the man said in a low clinical voice. Jack decided he must be a doctor in the real world. "The ritual will begin soon and Abraham hopes you will be sufficiently complacent. I offered a few simple suggestions to ensure this." The doctor first pulled out a handkerchief and proceeded to stuff it into Jack's mouth. Jack had been taken by surprise with this and missed his opportunity to fight back. The starvation and muscle fatigue was getting to him. He was already having trouble thinking straight. Then the doctor pulled out a small glass tube and removed the stopper.

"This is a strong muscle relaxant," the doctor said. "Mixed with a few other choice ingredients." The doctor nodded to another of the cultists, who came over to Jack and held his head still. The doctor shoved the tube into Jack's nose, holding it there until he breathed in deep. Jack tried to stop himself but the handkerchief in his mouth was choking him. "There you go," the doctor said with a malevolent grin. "The rest will be so much easier now if you don't fight it."

The effect wasn't immediate, but it was fast. Jack began to feel a numbing through his extremities, which kept growing further, and a slight haze seemed to float around everything. The candles on the walls were burning with a much greater intensity. The gleam of their fire danced off the scalpel the doctor had pulled out.

"What are you doing with that?" Jack tried to say, but the handkerchief was still clogging his mouth. The doctor walked away towards his feet and Jack lost sight of him. Then a sharp pinching pain went into Jack's right leg. He let out a muffled cry, which carried until the same pain went into his left leg. The doctor came back into view and removed the cloth from his mouth just as his cries turned into whimpers.

"There, there," the doctor mocked, running his hand through Jack's golden hair. "Were done with that. You can get up now." Jack knew those words were a cruel lie immediately, but the other two cultists in the room did start undoing his straps which had kept him bound for days. His skin underneath burned with sores, but it was a wonderful relief to take a full breath in. The lights of the candles were flashing brighter in his head and it was getting harder to keep the images of the doctor and the cultists in focus. "Come on now," the doctor mocked again. "If you don't get off that table you'll certainly have no chance of escape." Jack was sure the doctor was trapping him in some way, but the fact did stand, this would probably be his only chance for escape. He was weak and in no condition to fight off all three of them in the room, but if he could just manage the strength to wrestle the scalpel from the elderly doctor's hand, he might have a chance.

Jack swung his feet off the table (it was clumsy, everything in his body felt numb) and prepared to lunge at the doctor. He might not have been able to move gracefully, but he hoped he could take the doctor by surprise.

This faint hope fell to pieces the second Jack put weight on his feet. He felt a horrid ripping pain above his heels, and with a scream he collapsed to the stone floor. He gasped desperately for breath, praying for the pain to subside. He lifted his head enough to look back at his crumpled legs. The doctor had slashed both his Achilles tendons. A cruel trap indeed. Jack wanted to cry out for his mom, his only hope.

"He won't be able to cause any trouble with the ceremony now," the doctor said with a satisfied grin. "Bind his hands behind his back and then hose him off, thoroughly. The elite members won't want to see shit stains down his legs. I'll go see to the girl now." The doctor left and the other two did as he said. Jack's hands were bound with rope behind his back so even crawling wouldn't be possible. Then they turned the hose on him, blasting him with cold water, this time taking care to get every inch. The wounds in his ankles screamed as they were hit. Once he was deemed clean, the cultists simply stood off to the side and watched as he squirmed on the ground. Jack stopped moving before long, he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of a show.

An hour he stayed like this, maybe more. Then the door opened.

"It is time," a voice said, and behind him, far in the distance: chanting. Jack glanced over to see this new figure, robed in black like all the other and carrying a blazing lantern. There was a smell coming from it, some type of meat, Jack was afraid to guess what. The two that had stayed watching him, scooped him under the arms and hauled him almost to standing. Jack had to put a bit of pressure on his feet to keep his balance and avoid slipping from their grasp and smashing face first into the stone floor. It sent white lights through his head to put pressure on his ankles, but he knew what to brace for each time now and moved along without screaming.

They brought him out of his cell and into a much larger room. Aesthetically it didn't seem too different only there were many more doors, similar to the one Jack was dragged through. On one side of the room there were no doors though, and simply a large tunnel that went into a black abyss. The chanting was coming from that direction.

Jack saw someone was being taken out of a room at the other end across from his. The cultists led them toward each other. As Jack passed another of the rooms, two down from his own, a creature bashed its head at the thick window. Jack could barely hear its snarls through the well-barricaded door, but Jack recognized the twisted face to be a werewolf. Who knew what else the Imperial Cult was keeping in these cells.

As they reached the centre, Jack could see the group from the other side clearer. A girl, a bit younger than him, was being dragged along same as he was. Tears were streaming down her face and she winced with every movement, the tendons on her ankles cut as well. Her hands were bound and two cultists carried her along.

She saw him and their eyes met for a second before they were turned toward the tunnel. The cultist with the lantern took lead and they all marched down into the gaping black mouth.

Jack glanced over at the girl and wondered if she was a hunter too. No, that seemed unlikely. She couldn't have been much older than twenty. How had she gotten on the Imperial Cult's radar? They were descending deeper through the tunnel, and a bit further ahead it intersected with another much longer tunnel. The chanting grew stronger the further in they journeyed. Jack could start to make out the words, "Crasiate Ognek Serpence Vos Itrate." His head was spinning from the blood loss, starvation, and whatever drugs the doctor had forced on him. He leaned towards the girl as best he could, wanting to try and comfort her if he could.

"I'm Jack, what's your name?" he asked, finding it difficult to find his breath.

"Rachel," she said, in a terrified tremble. "What are they doing to us?"

"I don't know, but I have people outside of here who are looking for us. They know about these people and they'll track us down. It's going to be okay, I promise." Rachel gave him a weak smile, a knowing smile. Thank you for lying, it said. Jack was out of hope at this point. Whatever the Imperial Cult had planned was going to happen, and Jack prayed to God for their suffering to be brief.

The chanting boomed as they reached the end of the tunnel and entered the main chamber. Jack couldn't help but marvel at the shear vastness of the room, with its massive columns stretching up into the darkness. He couldn't see much at ground level past the crowd of cultists gathered around them. Hundreds there had to be, each cloaked in black with a candle lit in their hand, each adding their voice to the ominous chant.

"KRASIATE OG-NEK SERPENT-VOSK ITRAKE!" It was far more guttural now that the voices cried it all around them. Jack understood what he was hearing, it was demonic speech, or as close a human interpretation could get. Cara had tried to explain it to him best she could, saying that a demon without a host devolved to speaking this primal language. She said it couldn't be learned or studied like a normal language, that it could only be understood through instinctual feeling.

The sea of black robes parted before them and the man with the lantern leading their procession. The voices rose with more excitement as they walked through their ranks. Jack looked up at the faces of men and women, all staring back at him with ravenous eyes. The crowd separated to reveal the centre of the room, a large red pit. Jack recognized Abraham standing at the far end of this pool of blood. The cross and wheel that were normally there had been removed for this night's special event. Abraham appeared to be the only person not chanting. The man with the lantern walked around to Abraham's side, and Jack and Rachel were thrown down to their knees at the edge of the pool. Rachel lifted her head to Abraham and Jack heard her say in a soft voice, "You?"

"Strip them," Abraham commanded; his voice was soft and yet somehow carried even through the noise of the chants. The cultists that had been carrying Jack each took out knives hidden beneath their robes and began cutting Jack's clothes off of him. To his left, the same was being done to Rachel. She cried out, trying to wrestle away from them, but this only resulted in a few extra cuts to her skin as they worked.

"Stop hurting her!" Jack called as he was pushed to the ground so they could remove his pants. He could only see the feet of the cultists around him, but he could feel their energy, lustful as they watched this sick show. Once he was completely naked they pulled him back to his feet, Rachel too. She had suffered a few cuts to her side and shoulder.

Abraham looked them over and then nodded at the pool. Rachel and Jack were both lifted over the edge and carried into the centre of the pool. The blood was hot, and the copper smell made Jack's eyes water.

"Tie them together," Abraham said. Jack and Rachel were seated in the blood, back to back, and their already bound hands were bound to each other. Jack felt intense stings all over his body as they sat up to their shoulders in the blood of who knew how many victims. Jack grabbed Rachel's hand and she squeezed back tight. The other cultists left the pool and next it was Abraham's turn to enter. He strode in with the grace of an eel, lifting an apple high over his head as he did.

"We offer these two in service of the True God!" The chanting never stopped as Abraham spoke, they were all possessed by the words now. He lowered the apple and brought it to Rachel's lips. "Eat."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Eat," Abraham demanded with more force. "If you refuse I will take its weight out of your flesh." Rachel sobbed, but took a bite of the apple. Abraham turned to Jack. "Eat, or I will take it out of her flesh." Jack glared at this vile man, but took a bite. Abraham dropped the rest of the apple into the blood before turning to exit the pool. Abraham retook his position at the head of the pool, now dripping blood from his robes, and raised his arms high over head.

"As in the garden, the serpent will bend their weak souls to its will. KRAGNOR ROOK!" Then Jack felt them sink lower in the pool as a loud crack resounded through the hall.

"What's happening?" Rachel asked him. Jack wished he had an answer, but none of this made sense. They continued to sink, the blood floating around their chins now. The cultists all continued to chant the same phrase, louder and louder, "KRASIATE OG-NEK SERPENT-VOSK ITRAKE!" As the blood splashed into his mouth and kept rising to cover the rest of his face, Jack felt he knew what the words meant, "Abandon all hope, you who enter here."

Then the voices disappeared as the blood covered him entirely. He was suffocating but Jack would have almost welcomed that. No, this wasn't going to kill him; he could sense that, because what was coming was going to be far worse. Rachel was still tied to him but that was all there was in this thick curtain of blood. And they were still sinking.

Sinking. Sinking until they were falling. Jack couldn't grasp at what point the blood had disappeared, but he found he could breath again, though the air burned his throat. They were falling, and falling fast now, through some dark haze. Jack heard Rachel scream behind him. He screamed too because he saw what Rachel saw as they flipped around. Solid rocky ground was rushing up to meet them fast.

"At least it will be quick," was Jack's last thought before they connected. Jack landed first, Rachel on top of him, but both their bodies were obliterated. Blood exploded out in all directions, bones snapped and shattered, organs liquefied. Every inch of Jack's face was mashed to pulp as it collided with the ground, brain matter spewing out the top. Rachel's face was only marginally more recognizable in the mixed pile of their remains.

That part was certainly quick, but what followed was agonizingly slow.